See the Possible
by Pouncer
Summary: Five senses Sheppard remembers. Gen. Written fall 2006.


**See the Possible**

By Pouncer

_Taste_

They arrived at M92-414 – local name Trellia – in the middle of a fair. Teyla glanced around, pleased, and remarked that the prospects for trade were greatly increased. Sheppard looked at McKay and Ford, exchanging tight smiles, all of them wondering when they agreed to enter into a fantasy novel to sustain Atlantis. Sheppard missed logistics officers and supply chains and the routine predictability of shortages and new shipments from home.

"Stay alert," Sheppard warned, because he'd never discount the possibility of hidden nuclear bunkers again.

"I will see if I can locate previous trading partners," Teyla said. "They would be our most likely candidates for successful deals." She had a disturbingly bloodthirsty look in her eyes.

Sheppard sent Teyla and Ford off with orders to check in by radio at half hour intervals, then he and McKay wandered around nearby booths. Garish pennants fluttered in the breeze to attract patrons, and Sheppard tried to make his P-90 as inconspicuous as possible. Leather goods, fabric, and metal tools seemed to predominate in this section, and McKay quickly grew bored.

"There aren't even any interesting energy readings," he said with a plaintive disappointment more suited to a small child denied a snack.

Sheppard prepared to give his "buck up, it could be worse" pep talk, but then his nose detected a tantalizingly familiar scent and he was distracted. "Is that?" he said, and followed the sniff trail.

"Is that what?" he heard McKay ask, but Sheppard had spotted people leaving a booth carrying something that looked like insulation in their hands.

"It is!" Sheppard said, and couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. He asked McKay, who'd just caught up, huffing a little, "Hey, what do we have for money?"

"Money?" McKay started digging into a pocket on his tac vest. "Those square coin things, right? Aren't they pretty much galactic standard?"

Sheppard held out a hand, and McKay dumped a small pile of dull tokens into his palm.

"Terrific," Sheppard said. "Do you want some?"

"Some what? Major, what is going on?"

"They have _cotton candy_, McKay." Preoccupied with his intended purchase, Sheppard navigated the line, relishing the smell of burnt sugar that emanated from the booth. "Two," he ordered when he reached the counter, and held out his palm so the sales girl – a pretty blonde who revealed dimples when she smiled back at him – could pick out the correct amount of coins.

A machine in back whirred and a lanky man in an apron used a foot-long dowel to gather up strand after strand of white floss. He glared at Sheppard when he brought two servings over, and Sheppard let his smile dim. Jealous husband, he judged. Or maybe father. "Thank you," he nodded to the pair behind the counter, then jogged over to where McKay waited.

"Isn't this great?" Sheppard asked, thrusting one of the sticks toward McKay so he could get his fingers into the cotton candy. "Too bad they don't have blue."

The first taste melted on his tongue, transforming from something almost rough into pure sweetness that encapsulated summer after summer of loafing around with his friends, scheming ways to get on the adult rides at the carnival and avoid curfew. Sheppard half-expected neon lights to start flashing.

"Oh great," McKay said. "Now I'm going to get all sticky." He didn't sound unhappy with the prospect, and Sheppard started to walk again.

"Do you think they have a Ferris wheel hidden somewhere?" he asked, craning his neck around, just in case he'd missed it before.

_Sight_

There's a spot in one of the less-frequented towers that John has claimed as his retreat. It doesn't have any furniture, and it's not remarkable in any way on first glance – an empty space, ten feet by ten feet, with a balcony overlooking the East Pier.

After he finishes his morning run with Ronon, John will sometimes go there before hitting the mess hall. He walks to cool down, and stretches once he's closed the door. It doesn't take long before the sun rises and beams of light begin to glow through the windows. The colors wash over the floor, abstract shards of purple and blue and pink and yellow, and John holds his hands out and watches as the patterns decorate his skin, unearthly, alien, and yet everything that's come to mean home.

_Touch_

It begins as a tickle, a formless, wordless query at the back of John's skull as he takes his first steps through the awakening Atlantis. He's never felt anything like it before, and after the rush and bother of the mission to rescue Sumner and the others from the Wraith, it prods at John with more and more insistence.

He feels like he's babysitting a toddler, like that time he got stuck watching a nephew when his mother dragged him to visit her younger sister over Christmas and they abandoned him to go shopping for the afternoon. A toddler who wants to wail, "Pay attention to me!" but doesn't know how.

John doesn't have candy to placate this irritant, and as he organizes the Marines into watch rotations and clears rooms for habitation and briefs Dr. Weir on the status of their security perimeter, part of his mind is always probing at that itching spot, trying to ask what it wants. And why it won't leave him alone. He never gets a response. It's better than the vision of Sumner's aged face that tries to ambush John whenever he closes his eyes, but not by much.

Finally, out of desperation, John tracks McKay down (_think about where we are in the solar system_) and after a sufficient interval of oblique questioning blurts out his problem in terms as innocuous as he can make them.

McKay's face, previously annoyed at the interruption, turns sharp and interested. His eyes narrow, and he looks John up and down in a way that's more familiar from women in bars than co-workers. John wants to take a step back, right then, declare that it's nothing, so sorry to bother you, and flee.

"We know there's a mental component to controlling Ancient technology," McKay says at last. "This might be connected. We could test what you can do around here, see if it corresponds to the sensation you're describing."

John considers, looks around McKay's lab, where gadgets aplenty are already spread out for further investigation, and backpedals. "It's probably nothing," John says, "and I'm too busy for any kind of tests right now." That is not strictly a lie, because John's never been _in charge_ like this before, without a safety net or superior officer in theater, and his few dealings with Weir prior to the trip to Pegasus proved that her views and his on security differ significantly. John has to establish himself as military commander, prepare for the day when the Wraith arrive, and he can't do that if he's stuck in a lab all day.

"You'll let me know if it changes?" McKay asks, and John assures him that he'll be the first to know, privately thinking that nobody will hear of this again unless John's so distracted that he can't function.

xxxxxxxx

The tickle eases as John settles into Atlantis, becomes less noticeable as he gets used to opening doors with a thought and flying the puddlejumper more with intent than hands on a control yoke or feet on pedals. It's not until after he returns from Earth, silver oak leaves adorning a uniform he never wears anymore, that he remembers. The ZPM has lit Atlantis up like a beacon, brought long-dormant sections and capabilities to brilliant, vital life, and she welcomes him back with joy.

Rodney spends his first week back reviewing Zelenka's management of power distribution loads, then collects John one morning, refusing to tell him why.

"No, really, Rodney – what are we doing?"

"You'll see," Rodney sing-songs, and pulls John into the transporter. The doors open on a familiar corridor, and John plants his feet and won't take another step.

"Why are we here?" The last time John saw this hallway, he was running the other way to the control room and the jumper bay, the plan to fly a Genii nuclear warhead into the approaching hive ship something he couldn't make himself think through, because if he did it would be too much, overwhelm necessity with the instinct to survive.

"We need to see what the command chair can do under full power," Rodney replies as if John is an idiot for even asking. "We've never been able to test it like this, when we can learn its capabilities." He pulls at John's arm. "Come on."

John lets himself be led, approaches the chair with trepidation, his memories of it under even partial power disturbing. He'd fired drone after drone, attempted to hold the shields steady under a Wraith barrage, balanced dozens of competing crises (damage, power drain, hostile intruders) by instinct instead of conscious thought.

"Are you sure about this?" John asks Rodney, trying very hard not to sound scared.

"Of course I am," Rodney says. "Just let me get this hooked up," and then he's wiring his laptop to the interface panel at the back and gesturing for John to sit down.

John does, places his hands on the gel pads, cushy and slick, and falls and falls and falls, ice plummeting through his veins. He can't think, can't react, can only try to endure. It lasts for a second, for forever, and then he's caught, buoyed up on a vast warm cloud of potential.

"Oh," he says, stupidly.

_The Ancients built big_, Daniel Jackson said when John made the mistake of asking about the stargate system. John should always remember that, because here's more proof, strange vistas opened up before him, crystals and circuits transformed into a digital wonderland.

Rodney's voice echoes in his ears, questions that John can't answer yet. He sets out to explore a new part of his city and find the answers.

_Smell_

A coppery tang fills the cavern and John can hear himself chanting "no, no, no" under his breath. The smell is far too familiar from dozens of battles and skirmishes, and John's memory flashes to all the times it ended badly.

"Hey!" he barks, and Rodney's eyes finally (finally) rise to meet his. "It'll be okay," John says, softer now, trying to instill belief by force of will. If he believes enough, it'll be all right.

Rodney's hands are stained crimson where they clutch at the wound in his thigh.

"It's not that I doubt you, Colonel," Rodney gasps, which is a lie, because that's exactly what he's doing, "but this doesn't feel good. It doesn't look good." For all that Rodney is usually quick to panic, he's remarkably calm now, lost in a place of pain and weakness.

"We've survived worse, Rodney," John says. A stench of decay and rot mixes with the blood and sweat, the miasma of the cave intruding just like the ridiculous accident that dumped shards of rock at a concussive angle and injured Rodney. John holds his face still with great effort. "Ronon and Teyla will be back soon with Beckett, and you will be _fine_."

A red pool is spreading under Rodney's fatigues, and John adds his hand to the wound, pressing down with all his strength, ignoring the whimpers and moans Rodney makes because John will not let this happen. He won't.

_Sound_

The puddlejumpers fly silent, feel motionless inside the cabin regardless of what the displays show as progress.

John loves them, loves their responsiveness and range of uses, even though they look like something his granddad would have driven to Sarasota for the races. Boxy space Winnebagos, violating every standard of military aerodynamics, every principle of stealth and speed.

Sometimes, John hungers for the whir of rotors, a steady pounding thump that assured him he was above it all, airborne and maneuverable and armed with laser-guided missiles, helmet-slaved machine guns, ground-sweeping infrared radar, everything he needed to stay safe and survive.

The Ancients worried about sensors more advanced than radar.

John worries about essentials like speed and allies and getting all his people back to Atlantis, casualty-free. He tromps on foot more than he flies these days, the clatter of a P-90 replacing the rhythm of helicopter blades. He misses the air, fiercely, but his primary duty is to the city, this alien fortress of spires and delight, and he won't fail that obligation.

He won't fail again.

- end -

Notes: Title from Soren Kierkegaard "If I were to wish for anything, I should not wish for wealth and power, but for the passionate sense of potential -- for the eye which, ever young and ardent, sees the possible. Pleasure disappoints; possibility never." With thanks to Plum and Seperis for looking this over and calming my nerves.

Disclaimer: Sadly, the characters and situations of _Stargate: Atlantis_ do not belong to me. This story was written for love, not profit.

Feedback, positive or negative, is always welcome.


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